


this isn't my idea (this is my idea) of fun

by kattyshack



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Swan Princess (1994) Fusion, Denial of Feelings, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Fluff, Hate to Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-23
Updated: 2017-05-07
Packaged: 2018-10-09 12:14:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10411920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kattyshack/pseuds/kattyshack
Summary: Their eventual marriage is meant to strengthen the Northern/Southern alliance, but Jon Targaryen and Sansa Stark can hardly stop bickering long enough to make peace with each other, let alone their kingdoms. But it only takes a few meddling parents, suggestive friends, and a jealous sorcerer's magic spell to show this couple that what they've been dreaming of has been there all along.(work and chapter titles from "this is my idea," off the swan princess soundtrack)





	1. this is my idea of a match

**Author's Note:**

> to make this work in a way that satisfied me, i’ve taken c o n s i d e r a b l e liberties with the swan princess plot. but i like to think that the spirit of the thing remains the same, so with any luck those liberties will satisfy you, too. 
> 
> so without further ado: once upon a time...

Lyanna Stark sweeps into Winterfell with a missive from her husband in hand. Truth be told, it’s really her missive, but she’d found it best to let Rhaegar think the whole thing was his idea. After all, Targaryen kings had rather famous tempers, and Lyanna isn’t interested in soothing his bruised ego every time her ideas are better than his. Frankly, she doesn’t have the time.

Unsurprisingly, she finds her brother and lord of Winterfell, Ned, in a quiet corner of the castle where he keeps his study. He’s bent over his desk, tired eyes flicking over what must be another petition for his eldest daughter’s hand. Surely nothing else would make a man look so weary. Lyanna would hate to say that she’s about to contribute to that agitation, but she’s been traveling for a month and she’s really too tired to care. Besides, if she has her way, Ned will have a solution to this particular problem.

“Why the long face, brother?” Lyanna says by way of greeting. “Let me guess. That’s another letter from the daft but nevertheless incorrigible Mace Tyrell, isn’t it?”

Ned’s grin is small but true. “This one’s from the Martells, actually.”

“Ah, the Dornish. Charming bastards. Which one of them wants to marry your daughter?”

“Nothing gets past you, does it, Lyanna?” Ned chuckles. He tosses the letter onto the ever-growing pile of others just like it. He sighs at the sight of them. “All these heads of houses offer such advantageous marriages, and yet I can’t help but think… ah...”

He trails off, unsure of what to say. It should be easy to make a match for his daughter. She’s a highborn lady, striking and accomplished and second in line to inherit Winterfell after her brother. But the absolute barrage of letters asking after her hand has almost made Ned regret fashioning the line of succession as such. Perhaps he’s given Sansa’s name too much power, for he fears that’s all these men and their houses are after. Riches and honor and land acquirement do not a marriage make, Ned thinks, which is why he’s deliberated her betrothal this long.

But as he said, nothing gets past Lyanna. Nor is she one to beat around the bush, especially not after so many weeks on the Kingsroad. She’s brash and impatient and just a little bit excited. So rather than console her brother’s worries, Lyanna drops the dragon-sealed letter onto his desk as means to a solution.

Ned’s gaze travels from his sister’s smug expression to the parchment in front of him. That triumphant smile and the scarlet wax seal, coupled with the topic at hand, can only mean one thing. Yet Ned hears himself asking, fool that he is, “What’s this?”

“The answer to your prayers.”

“Right,” Ned breathes, his irritation piquing once more. He loves his sister dearly, but in his current high-strung state her penchant for such theatrics plays on his nerves. He plucks at the parchment with unenthusiastic fingertips. “Shall I read this, or are you going to tell me what it says?”

“Oh, buck up, Ned,” Lyanna says, as cheerful as her brother is somber. “Just think of it—if Jon and Sansa are wed, we ensure the Northern and Southern alliance for another lifetime. Since my marriage to Rhaegar, tensions have been high, I admit. But they’ll ebb in time, especially if we give them _more_ time to do so.”

“Your point is taken, sister. But it doesn’t do much to quell my doubts, which are much the same with Jon as they are with every other family who’s called upon us.”

Lyanna tilts her head, considering her brother’s words. “You fear that Sansa will be mistreated or unloved or neglected, because you don’t know any of these suitors. You don’t know what sort of men they are. You don’t know the Tyrell or Martell heirs, and gods know you won’t offer Sansa to a Lannister.”

Ned snorts in agreement, but Lyanna’s not finished.

“You know Jon, though,” she says. “You know that boy better than any other, save your own sons. He’s kind and brave. A bit stubborn at times, but he has a hero’s heart. He would be good to Sansa, he’d protect her without having any designs on her fortune or claim to Winterfell. They could fall in love, Ned. We just need to… nudge them a bit.”

This time, Ned laughs. Once again Lyanna makes a few fair points. Binding the kingdoms together is a foremost concern, and marrying Sansa to the heir to the Southern throne would ensure this alliance better than any other match Ned could dream up. The Starks certainly would have no need to worry about an uprising; the enemies they already had would be kept at bay longer for fear of the power behind another Stark/Targaryen alliance. Sansa’s suitors may have to nurse some modicum of insult, but they would not begrudge their crown prince’s right to a suitable wife.

Indeed, Ned thinks, Jon would make quite a suitable husband for his eldest daughter, too. He’s a handsome boy, young but proficient with a sword, a good rider… All the makings of the knights and heroes Sansa is so fond of in her stories. Admittedly, Jon can be a bit haughty and rather proud on occasion, but he’s soft-spoken and polite all the same. No doubt he would be kind to Sansa, and treat her gently as she deserves. Yes, Ned could see how love might blossom between the two, if only it is approached the right way.

“Nudge them, ey?” Ned echoes. “Well I suppose that’s not the _worst_ way to go about it.”

“Indeed not.” Lyanna purses her lips to keep her smile from showing, but Ned could see her inner jubilation from a mile away. She knows as much, but she doesn’t want to get ahead of herself just yet, in case her overly cautious brother feels the need to brood over it some more.

“Well,” Ned says again, tapping his quill decidedly atop his desk, “I daresay we have ourselves a match, dear sister.”

Lyanna positively beams.


	2. all their pushing and annoying hints

As it happens, both Ned and Lyanna underestimated the willpower of their respective children. A few simple “nudges” quickly become obsolete, and they are instead forced to rather unceremoniously shove Jon and Sansa towards one another. Even then, things don’t quite go to plan.

Sansa is soft and delicate and made entirely of sugar cubes, Jon thinks. She’s as much a lady as any he’s met at court, and yet somehow she’s just so insufferably _more_.

Jon is rough and loud and a little bit wild, Sansa thinks. Like the other boys. Like _all_ the boys. He’s often caked in dirt and blood and grime, and seems to think he’s better for it.

And yet their parents insist.

“He’s immature,” Sansa whines.

“Be kind,” Catelyn scolds.

“She’s stuck-up,” Jon groans.

“Get over it,” Lyanna suggests.

But Jon, for one, can’t get over it. Sansa is just so… She’s so… _uppity_ , is the word he often lands on. Settles on, more like, because there’s no word that’s quite enough on its own to describe Sansa Stark. Her back is straight as an arrow, and he’s certain that she only holds her chin aloft like that to better look down her elegant nose at him. She’s good at everything she tries and she knows it, which only makes it worse when she bests him at something—because she _knows_ it and she _smirks_.

Of course Sansa is adept at all manner of ladylike pursuits—stitching, drawing, dancing—but she can skip a rock across two hot springs in one go, too. She can string a bow better than any of them, except perhaps her sister; and that’s no good either because then Jon has to deal with Sansa _and_ Arya smirking like they own the world and are only pretending that they don’t. But then Sansa will beat him at another hand of cards and she laughs because of _course_ she owns the world, damn anyone who says otherwise.

“You’re bad at this,” Robb says when the cards are face-up and Sansa’s got all the kings on her side.

“I’m not bad at this, you can’t be bad at this,” Jon replies dully. “I’ve just got rotten luck.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say rotten,” Sansa disagrees lightly. She shuffles the cards, and Jon notes to his dismay that she’s better than him at that, too. “After all, you’re marrying me.”

“Don’t remind me,” Jon mutters.

Robb pokes his friend in the ribs, but Sansa merely raises her eyebrows and deals out the deck. She’s used to Jon’s sour moods; even if he liked her, she suspects he’d be partial to a brood more often than not. Jon may think her arrogant, but Sansa contents herself with the fact that she can at least act like a lady about their arrangement. Whether or not Jon wishes to act the gentleman is entirely up to him; it won’t affect her manners, at any rate.

That annoys Jon, too—Sansa’s impregnable good temper. He’s sure it’s only a façade she keeps up to get under his skin. Maybe he’s being paranoid, but if Jon is honest with himself he prefers the paranoia to what his mother apparently infers.

“You think she’s pretty, don’t you?” Lyanna asks her son too often, and always with a sly grin.

Jon grimaces. _“Mother…”_

“It’s all right,” Lyanna assures him. “She thinks you’re handsome. I see her looking at you.”

“Oh, well, if she’s _looking_ at me, you’d best send for the maester to wed us immediately.” Jon shakes his head. His mother is almost as infuriating as Sansa is. “She’s only looking at me to decide which of my qualities she likes least on a given day, and then she proceeds to goad me about it until she finds something more worth her time.”

Lyanna rolls her eyes. _Impossible boy._ “Goodness, Jon; did I raise such a cynic, or is my son still in there somewhere?”

Jon doesn’t think it safe to answer that, so he presses his mouth in a thin hard line and pretends that he’s won the conversation.

For her part, Sansa retains her romantic nature. Raised on songs and stories, she insists to herself that they remain true as ever, even if they do contend with her brooding, bickering husband-to-be. At least their marriage won’t be boring, she admits privately, although she won’t say so to Jon in case the notion of a compatible union discourages him from arguing with her further.

It’s just that his eyes go so bright when they’re in the thick of it, and Sansa thinks it rather nice.

Jon wouldn’t say so, but the flush of Sansa’s neck when she’s telling him off is quite pretty, too.

They might not say such things aloud, but they’re not as slick as they’d like to think, either. Lyanna shoots Ned and Catelyn many a knowing look, forever self-satisfied that she had the foresight to arrange the match.

“They get along quite nicely,” she singsongs. Ned chuckles, but his wife doesn’t quite see it.

“Are we talking about the same children?” Catelyn asks dubiously, her eyes wandering across the hall to where Jon and Sansa sit, neither of them looking at the other.

“Indeed we are, my dear Cat.” Lyanna puts a hand on the other woman’s shoulder. “You can’t see it on the surface, but look a little longer and see how they watch each other. She’s never looking when his eyes are on her, and she’s too well-mannered to let her gaze linger too long. But oh, when it does...”

Lyanna trails off on a wistful sigh, heart as full of young love as it was when she met her own husband. She and Rhaegar had a harried, tempestuous romance that blossomed into the respect and understanding between them today. Still there are flashes of that old hot temper, the thrill, the danger, the fun. She had been a stubborn thing, but any illusions she may have had about keeping aloof vanished in Rhaegar’s cocky grin. Sansa and Jon had proven themselves more difficult pieces to move, but it’s clear to any who care to notice that they’ve softened around the edges.

When Sansa moves, Jon sidesteps to block any oncoming harm. When he makes a smart comment about what a _lady_ she is, the corner of Sansa’s mouth twists up. When she raises her brows at the filthy state of his fingernails, Jon grazes them against her skin. She slaps him away with a laugh, and he swallows the nervous lump in his throat that follows. Jon is always nervous when she laughs, as though he’s afraid he may drown in the sound of it.

“You are _allowed_ to think she’s pretty, you know,” Lyanna tells him when he still won’t admit it aloud. “You’re allowed to think her clever and accomplished, too. You’re even allowed to say nice things to her. Shocking, I know. Scandalous, even, to share a kind word with your wife.”

Jon scowls, but Lyanna is pleased when he can’t tear his eyes from Sansa long enough to direct the scowl at her.

“Too enraptured to bother scolding your mother properly, I see,” she says on a dramatic sigh. And even then, Jon does not look away from the sway of Sansa’s hair.

“Oh, young love…” Ned remarks, flippant as his sister tends to be. His tone makes her laugh. “What fun it is.”

“We’re not _in love_ ,” both Sansa and Jon insist.

Robb yawns. “‘Course not.”

Arya snorts. “Not in the least.”

Theon pulls a face. “Yeah, right.”

“Oh, what do any of you know?” both Jon and Sansa huff, and cross their arms over their hearts.


	3. i think you really sorta like her, 'fess up

The stranger arrives one afternoon, when the boys and Arya are practicing in the yard. The Northerners do not take kindly to unfamiliar faces, but on the cusp of an argument as they are, neither Jon nor Arya, Robb nor Theon, notice the man’s approach.

“So, Jon,” Robb begins between parries, “what do you think of our sister?”

Arya glares at him, but Robb waves her off with little more than a smirk. She supposes that’s a signal that she should trust him, but she doesn’t, not in the slightest. So she keeps her glare, and rotates her sword between her fingers in the lightest of warnings.

“I don’t think anything of her,” Jon lies, hardly convincing anyone, least of all himself.

Even if it weren’t for the skip in his chest at the thought of her, Jon would be lying. He’d thought her soft and haughty, incorrigible and irritating, sweet and awful and forever nagging and frustratingly beautiful, because nobody who annoyed him _this_ much should be _that_ pretty—but he’d always thought something of her. If there had been one thing he never felt for Sansa Stark, it was indifference. She had always elicited so much more than something so simple, so forgettable; for he never could forget her, not any part, not one bit.

“Oh, that’s likely,” Arya drones, already sick of the fight her brother’s trying to pick. Robb’s an instigator, Jon’s wont to take the bait, and Arya knows her own temper well enough to recognize that she’ll be the one to knock their heads together by the end of it. Theon’s, too, if he happens to say something stupid in the meantime.

“It’s true,” Jon lies some more, although he couldn’t say why he’s doing it. His inability to understand what the hell he’s doing only fans the flame that Robb lit. “We don’t like each other, we hardly get on. That’s the story. End of.”

“And again I say, _oh, that’s likely_.”

Jon cuts his sword into the ground at his feet in a vain attempt to release this sudden agitation. He’s not a man prone to unkind words—even his jabs at Sansa are tame, often good-natured—but he can’t stand Arya’s condescension, nor Robb and Theon’s matching grins, and here, out of Sansa’s earshot, he lets them get the better of him.

“Marrying her will surely be the greatest misery of my life,” he says, and regrets the words before Arya lunges at him, blade first.

“Bloody hell!” There’s a clang of steel-on-steel as Jon swings his sword up to catch Arya’s before she can slice him in two. Behind them, Robb and Theon whistle, but Arya only has the patience for one idiot boy at a time.

“Watch yourself, my lord prince,” she snarls as she knocks Jon’s sword aside and goes for him again, forcing him to hurry back several steps. “You’d best learn to hold your tongue if you want to make it to your wedding night alive. I don’t care what our parents say, I’ll gut you before Sansa can don her maiden’s cloak.”

“Oi—” Jon steps back as Arya dances forward, blades aloft and clashing—“she doesn’t want to marry me, either!”

“Well, who _would_ , the way you’ve been acting?” Arya challenges as she slashes at him again. “At least she’s trying. She’s kind, she smiles at you and always says the right things, just _hoping_ that you’ll reciprocate with half as much heart—”

“She didn’t always—”

“Oh, grow up, Jon,” Arya snaps. She avoids his attack easily, and sweeps his legs out from under him. He’s on his back but up just as quickly, scrambling to avoid her, but Arya doesn’t miss a beat. “Sansa has. She’s put on a brave face for ages, because you’re getting married whether you like it or not and she would very much like you to like it.”

“Hang on,” Theon pipes up from the sidelines, “I didn’t follow any of that.”

“Shut up, Theon.” _Guess I’ll be knocking all three of their heads together_ , Arya thinks, but keeps her focus on the slash, twist, and parry she’s engaged in with Jon. He’s too skilled a swordsman for her to let her guard down, but Arya’s always been half a step ahead. She’s quicker and angrier, and not afraid to leave him with a scar or two.

“And don’t think you can fool me, Jon,” she continues as steel bites steel once more. She’s forcing him to step backwards around the yard, chasing him with her blade. “You think you’re clever, with all your sidelong looks and hanging ‘round in the library, which just _happens_ to be at the end of Sansa’s corridor? You think I haven’t seen you blush when she so much as walks past? Do you _really think_ I don’t know why you spilled your ale all over that moon-eyed Lannister boy at the last feast? Sure, I wanted to box him about the ears for leering at Sansa, but I’m not the one pretending I don’t want to marry her, am I? You’re just too stubborn to admit it!”

Her blade catches his tunic this time, tearing it and leaving a bloodstain behind.

“God, Arya!” Jon swears under his breath. “Are you trying to kill me?”

“Keep treating my sister the way you are and I just might!” she promises. She doesn’t give him a moment to rest, and his sword hits hers with renewed vigor. “Your air of detached politeness is an absolute joke. Sansa deserves _better_ than that, and unfortunately for her you’re the one who’s got to provide it!”

“Unfortunately for _her_? Just for her? What about me?”

“We’ve been over this! She’s trying, Jon. She wants this to work, but you’re being too selfish and stubborn and stupid to even admit that you want her, too!”

Jon would protest, but he can’t find the strength for further denial, not with a sword coming at him every which way and pictures of Sansa darting in and out of his mind’s eye. Even if he could, Arya wouldn’t let him get away with it.

“Don’t lie to me, Jon,” she continues before he can so much as think of what to say next. She tries to trip him again, but Jon hops out of the way just in time. “I can see right through you! You’re hardly even trying to hide it anymore! Take a look in the mirror after you see her the next time, and try to tell me where that stupid grin of yours comes from if it’s not her. _I_ know it’s her. We _all_ know. All of us but Sansa.”

More furious with every step and stab and stupid _hoot!_ from her brother or Theon, Arya swings her blade against Jon’s in such an unprecedented show of strength that both swords fly out of their masters’ hands. Unarmed now, Arya pounces on Jon, tackling him to the ground in a storm of blood and curses and a couple of well-placed punches.

“You IDIOT—” they’re rolling in the mud, and Arya’s got all the leverage—“she doesn’t believe you could love her for anything, because you’ve been too much of a complete prick to make her believe otherwise!”

“I can’t have made her feel that bad,” Jon shoots back, more to soothe his own worries than to convince Arya. He knows better than that.

But he _hadn’t_ known better, not really, not if it meant he’d made Sansa’s smile dim. Not if it meant he’d made her doubt that she was worth so much more than what he’d given. His heart deflates at the thought—because he should have given her more, right from the start.

“I couldn’t’ve. She doesn’t—she wouldn’t—”

“Well she _does_.” Arya’s spit hits him right in the face while she smacks him upside the head. “God knows why, but she loves you enough to admit to it. Maybe you should do the same, or you’re not the man she thinks you are, you great big _prat_ of a prince.”

That said, Arya rolls off him and springs to her feet, swift as you please. “Robb, what the ever-living shit were you thinking—”

Robb’s laughter is a vague echo on the outskirts of Jon’s mind. His eyes are on the great gray sky above him, his chest stinging and head swimming…

_She loves you._

_Loves you._

_Loves you._

The sun peeks through the dense wall of clouds and the sky winks blue. Blue like the hot springs where Sansa’s rock skips farther than his. Blue like the deck of cards in slender white hands. Blue like the cloak she wove in her mother’s colors. Blue, blue, blue, like the sparkle of her eyes when she smiles at him. Blue like the wave of nerves he drowns in when she laughs.

And here he is now, lying in the mud, drenched in sweat and dripping with blood, drowning in nothing but the thought of her blue. Drowning in the sea of thoughts that’s all _Sansa Sansa Sansa_ , in the current that’s all _She loves you loves you loves you_ , spiraling down into the depths that are a thousand feelings that suddenly make a thousand things fall into place, and Jon wonders if they hadn’t been in place all this time—

_“I’ve just got rotten luck.”_

_“Oh, I wouldn’t say rotten. After all, you’re marrying me.”_

The sky winks blue, and Jon’s just thinking that he’s in love when the stranger speaks.

“Many happy returns, my prince,” the words slither like a spell into Jon’s reverie. “Might I ask after Catelyn Stark?”

Jon pushes himself up onto his elbows just as Robb asks, “Who wants to know?”

“Only an old friend, come back home.” The stranger smiles, and his eyes are pools of black that have Jon drowning in an entirely different way—suffocating now, in the wake of his newfound liberation. 

The man does not tear his fathomless gaze from Jon’s, his face painted with a smile, as he continues: “Run along, young Lord Stark, and tell your mother that Littlefinger’s come to call.”


	4. and somehow suddenly she became a swan

The arrival of Petyr Baelish is of little consequence to Jon and Sansa, who are far too preoccupied with one another to care about an old family friend of Lady Catelyn. The man’s presence at Winterfell does not affect Jon’s realization, nor does it touch the carefully constructed wall Sansa has built around herself. Jon thinks of Sansa, and Sansa thinks of Jon, and there is little room in either of their heads for anything else.

Ned, however, unsticks his nose from their business long enough to suspect that Petyr’s appearance means no good news. But when he mentions it to his wife, she only smirks and calls him jealous.

“Petyr’s harmless,” Catelyn assures him. “I’ve known him since we were children.”

“And he’s loved you just as long.”

“See? Jealous.” She flashes Ned another grin, then waves off his sigh. “I’m sorry, my love, but I can’t concern myself with a past infatuation when I’ve got a whole new one to deal with.”

“Oh?” Ned perks up, interested. “And who might I ask is in love with my lady wife now?”

Catelyn swats playfully at his chest. “Not me, you dolt. I think you know, I’m talking about the considerable _lack_ of affection between our daughter and the man you’ve promised will wed her.”

Ned sighs again. His wife has voiced her concerns before, but it seems as though they will not rest until Jon makes some sort of vow of everlasting love to their daughter. And even then, the boy would have to prove it to the world before Catelyn accepted the betrothal in good faith.

“He doesn’t like her, Ned,” Catelyn presses now. “He doesn’t show her the slightest bit of fondness or care that I can tell. Sansa’s always dreamed of romance, of a man to sweep her off her feet. Don’t you want some happiness for her?”

“The boy’s only shy, my love,” Ned says in efforts to pacify her. “Lyanna thinks he likes Sansa very much.”

She lifts an eyebrow. “Shy?”

“Stubborn, then,” he concedes, and kisses her brow reassuringly. “You’ll see at the feast tonight. Jon hates to dance, and I’ll owe you five gold coins if he doesn’t ask Sansa regardless, hm?”

Catelyn relents, if only because they share all their gold, anyway, so it’s not as though she can really lose.

The night comes as warm and sultry as it ever does in the North, and the windows of the great hall are thrown open to welcome the breeze. The music is lively and the wine runs rich, and Jon takes it in turns to tap his foot nervously and down another goblet. Ever since his confrontation with Arya in the yard, he’s been a tightly wound spring and he can only pray that Sansa doesn’t notice.

Of course, she does, but she’s too polite to say anything about it. Sansa is vain enough to admit that she rather likes the way Jon trips over his words when he talks to her, the way his eyes dart from hers to her mouth and then over her shoulder in pure boyish embarrassment. If his heart is in his throat half as much as her own, she’ll be satisfied that he loves her enough to make their parents’ match a happy one. And at the end of it, Sansa would much prefer to marry a man who loves her, rather than one who’d sooner sleep in the armory than share her bed.

Tonight, sharing her bed is looking more and more appealing, however it might shame Jon when such errant thoughts cross his mind. But god, does she look… Beautiful? Ravishing, radiant? Her dress is a flowing myriad of greens and blues that melt together so it looks as though she’s wearing the ocean. And damn it if he’s not drowning in her again.

Catelyn sees the way her daughter is causing Jon to gape, so she decides to prod the boy in the right direction. If he’s to marry Sansa no matter what—as Ned and Lyanna insist, and gods help her if she wants to contend with the pair of them—he might as well know how he’s meant to treat her. So Catelyn clears her throat and says, “Do you think my daughter pretty, Jon?”

He jumps in his seat and spins about to look at her. If he’s not mistaken, Jon thinks he catches the hint of a smile on her usually stern face; but then, he doesn’t want to push his luck.

“Um. Yes,” he very nearly stammers. “Yes, I do, Lady Stark.”

“Well.” It’s no grand declaration of love, but Catelyn supposes that it will have to do. “Would it kill you to say it to her every once in awhile?”

A deep red blush spreads across Jon’s face and this time he really does stammer through an explanation. Catelyn doesn’t understand a word of it, but she thinks that yes, this will do nicely; perhaps Jon is a better match for her daughter than she’d given him credit for. She is even more pleased when Jon promptly excuses himself to ask Sansa for a dance. _Best money I’ve ever spent._

“Really?” Sansa says, one elegant eyebrow raised at Jon’s proffered hand as though it holds some sort of trick.

Jon’s not sure how it’s possible, but he can feel his face heat further. What is it with Stark women embarrassing the hell out of him? Between Arya whaling on him in the yard, Lady Catelyn inquiring after his _intentions_ , and Sansa doing that thing where she looks at him and suddenly he gets the urge to drop to his knees in pure adulation, well… It’s a wonder Jon hasn’t exiled himself across the sea just to lick his wounds in peace.

“Well not if you’re going to make me feel stupid about it,” he mumbles, but doesn’t withdraw his hand in hopes that she’ll take it.

“Perish the thought,” Sansa says with a soft, wry smile. And much to Jon’s (cringingly obvious, he thinks) relief, she slips her fingers into his palm and allows him to lead her to the floor.

“I’m not much for dancing.” Jon’s voice is apologetic when he takes Sansa’s waist. “Likely I’ll step on your toes through the whole rotation.”

He pulls her close and Sansa’s heart skips a racing beat. He could break her toes for all she cares, if it means that he’ll hold her this way forever. But she holds her tongue and says only, “Oh, I don’t mind.”

They follow the beat the band plays, Sansa leading more than Jon, a courtesy for which he’s immensely grateful. The last thing he needs tonight is to suffer yet another humiliation. It’s bad enough that he can see Robb and Theon out of the corner of his eye, mimicking his awkward movements and sniggering. _Bastards._

“They think they’re funny,” Sansa says when her gaze follows Jon’s, “but they can’t dance, either.”

“Too right, they can’t.” Jon resolves to ignore them, because it’s stupid not to. When he has Sansa this close, there’s nothing to do but ignore the whole world around them; it simply melts away, like the colors in her dress.

Lady Catelyn’s words ring in his ears. He’s looking at Sansa, he’s sure, like an open-mouthed bass. He can’t keep looking at her like that, can he? He should say something. Perhaps he should tell her…

“You, um,” he begins without thinking it through, “you look very… well… er… New dress?”

Another one of those slow, gentle smiles takes hold of Sansa’s mouth. Her pretty, painted mouth. “It is. Do you like it?”

“It’s—yeah. I do.” This isn’t going well. But they are spinning and her skin is warm and he’s overtaken by the scent of soft winter roses and he can’t think of anything to say. “You look beautiful. You look beautiful in most everything—well, _actually_ everything, really.”

Was that any better? Jon wonders. Probably not.

“Oh, is that why you’ve been so nice to me lately?” Sansa wants to know, but her tone tells Jon she’s only teasing. “Because I’m pretty? Is that all it takes?”

“‘Course not,” Jon tells her, although he can’t quite tease the way she does. Yet another thing she’s better at than he is, but he can’t say he minds so much anymore. “I mean, it’s not like it _hurts_ , mind…”

Sansa’s laughter is bright as sunlight, and carries across the hall to a man as dark as moonless night.

Petyr Baelish’s sudden appearance at Winterfell may have been of no issue to Jon and Sansa, but their engagement touches a certain nerve as far as he’s concerned. He watches them dance, hears Sansa’s mirth, sees the way that the boy’s eyes adore her, and suddenly Petyr’s nothing but a boy again as well. A green boy with a hapless heart, a greedy gaze, and hands empty of what he so desperately seeks to hold.

He’s drawn to Catelyn again, but she’s as besotted with her husband as she was when Petyr last left her. Theirs had been a marriage of convenience, and yet there is no mistaking the affection that has grown and prospered between them. Petyr sees the same in Jon and Sansa, and he is thrust into his past so assuredly that he feels as though there has been some sort of upset in the gods’ construction of time.

For who could have imagined such a happenstance? he wonders now, as this boy spins Sansa out only to bring her once more into the fold of his arms, closer and closer still. The hall is so full of merrymaking that no one else seems to notice the world in which these two inhabit, the world to which Petyr is a mere voyeur.

Jon’s hand is splayed across the small of Sansa’s back, and he tugs her ever so slightly into his orbit. He ducks his head—again, Petyr notes, ever so slightly—and there is a whisper exchanged between the two, a whisper that shouts of a young love sought and found. Of a love pure and true. A love reciprocated.

Sansa is the one to take that last step forward, the one whose lips catch Jon’s in one fleeting moment—a moment in which Petyr’s vision flashes, and suddenly it’s Ned and Catelyn in the middle of the floor, and he’s offering and she’s taking and they are lost in the embrace of the other so completely, and somewhere in the distance Petyr swears he hears the faint chiming of bells that would herald in the end of his life as he knows it—

The tepid breeze that had graced the hall is suddenly a ferocious wind that spirals into the room, upending chairs and glassware. There is a shout, a scream, and the lovers on the floor break apart so the boy might draw his sword to meet a threat he might recognize, but does not yet see.

“Sansa,” Jon says in a low voice as he watches Petyr stand. He steps in front of her, blade in hand. “Stay behind me.”

But it makes no difference to Petyr where the girl stands. He had come to Winterfell with a purpose in mind. Gods smite him down now if he’s meant to relive his past while the future blooms so bright for a love that does not know the meaning of the word. His lady Catelyn had rejected him, shattered him, all for a man who did not— _could_ not—feel for her as ardently as Petyr had. And now their girl, the one with Tully looks and Stark name, would dance with this Targaryen boy and offer her heart? Petyr could not stand to see it.

Not then, not now, not again.

“There’s no need to fret, my young prince,” Petyr calls in the ringing silence that the wind leaves behind. All eyes have turned to him, and Jon’s sword catches the candlelight as he holds the weapon aloft. “I don’t intend to hurt your lady. At least, not as much as the hurt her mother has left behind.”

Ned and Catelyn exchange naught but a glance, but it is heavy with Petyr’s words.

All at once, he claps his hands—once, only once, but thunder crashes in the dry sky outside and the wind whips anew. There is a rainstorm behind Jon, and he jerks around only to find Sansa engulfed in a wave of glowing golds and blues, her mouth open in surprise and her eyes locked on his. She says his name, an echoed cry of _Jon_ , and then the wall of magic closes around her and she is vanished.

Her voice rings in the air, but a moment ago Jon could have touched her with half a step and now… Now, he could not touch her, not even in dreams.

There’s another scream, and a hundred gasps as Jon turns to that empty space behind him. An empty space where, mere moments ago, Sansa had stood. She had clutched at his arm, her breath hot and harried on his neck. Her lips had touched his—oh, gods, how sweetly, how at home he had felt in nothing more than a kiss between them—and now she is gone before he can say _I love you_ and he will _kill_ Baelish for this sin he’s committed against her—

Jon’s heart hammers in his chest, as though it wishes to escape, as though it would throttle Petyr all on its own on its way to recover Sansa. The men draw their blades, but Catelyn can do nothing but stare at Petyr in abject horror. Harmless, unassuming Petyr, who had loved her, who never would have hurt her, had whisked her beloved child away in a puff of smoke.

“She could have been ours, Cat,” Petyr says, his voice earnest and eyes black as his magic. “But now, she’s mine.”

The doors rattle on their hinges and the wind whips through, and with a turn of his cloak Petyr is gone, gone, gone, and the hall erupts in his wake.

“Sansa!”

_“Sansa!”_

_“SANSA!”_


	5. such a powerful and magic potion

In a little holdfast off the coast of Riverrun, a swan tucks her head in and glides across the water. She flutters her wings but does not use them, for there is no place for her to go.

“Leave, if you like,” Petyr Baelish had invited. “But wherever you go, when the moon sets and the sun rises upon the water, you’ll turn back into a swan.”

So Sansa does not leave. There is no place to go but home, to Winterfell, and what could they do for her there? What magic do the Northerners possess that could rid her of this curse? She is only human by night, and only if she abides by Baelish’s orders and stays on the water. When the moon rises and the water bursts into a thousand diamonds beneath its light, Sansa is once more engulfed by that blue-and-gold wave, and then suddenly she is herself again.

Whether swan or girl, Sansa spends her imprisonment thinking of a way to escape it. She is alone with her thoughts and nothing has ever seemed more hopeless, more impossible. Not her stitching, however tiresome the pattern; not her hair, even when Robb had tangled sticky taffy into it as a joke; not any request she would propose to her father, who is too easily swayed by her charms to ever deny her… Not even Jon had been impossible, no matter how many times she had huffed and insisted that was _precisely_ what he was.

Impossible. Immature. Irritating. Incorrigible.

And she’s in love with him nonetheless.

She can’t say how or when; it had just happened, as easily, as naturally, as anything she’d ever come to love before. It had been right, and Sansa always does what’s right.

And nothing had been more right than when, in the middle of Winterfell’s great hall, Jon had kissed her as they danced.

 _He will come for me_ , she thinks during the long days and longer nights. He will come, and yet she can’t bear to wait. Sansa knows Jon to be proficient with a blade, to be determined in a fight, and she does not doubt his love for her—a love that had gone unspoken, undeclared, but Sansa can still feel it in the way that he’d held her.

 _He will come for me_ , she vows inwardly, because he is not there to do so himself. He will come, and yet she can’t swim idly along and wait for him to rescue her.

Sansa is a romantic, but this curse had been cast upon her without her consent and there is not a prince in the world who can undo this wrong. There is no declaration of devotion, no true love’s kiss, that could make Petyr Baelish hurt the way he’d done to her when he’d taken her from her home, her family, her future, and given her wings that keep her prisoner.

Jon will come for her, she knows, but Sansa will meet him along the way.

Baelish does not believe it. Every night, he comes to the water’s edge where she transforms, and he offers himself in marriage in exchange for her freedom. But there is no freedom, should she bind her name, her life, to his, and Sansa tells him so when she refuses.

“Winterfell is my home,” she says, defiance alive in her eyes, “and I won’t let you near it.”

“But you would give your claim to a Targaryen?” Baelish asks, time and again. “You would hand the North to your Southern prince?”

“Jon loves me.” _Loves me loves me loves me._ “I will hand him _nothing_ , because he doesn’t ask for it. What’s mine is his, and what’s his is mine. We will rule the kingdoms as his father and my aunt Lyanna have.”

Baelish spits back the word— _love_ —and tells her that there is no such thing.

“There is only power.” He swirls his hand in midair, and golden strands of light follow. They illuminate the shadows that create his face, and Sansa would shrink away if her spine weren’t so straight. “Do not be weak, sweetling, as your mother before you. She fell for love, and left all that I promised her behind.”

Sansa’s gaze had been enraptured by the lights dancing before her, but when Petyr Baelish speaks of her mother, the night is dark as ever.

“My mother fell for love,” Sansa near growls as she steps out of his hold, “because my father gave it in return.”

The answer does not please Baelish. Her answers never do.

Night after night, she tells him _no_. She says that Winterfell is hers, and she’d sooner see it burn than fall into his unworthy hands. The North belongs to the Starks, and she would not betray her people for all the freedom he—this man, this sorcerer, this tyrant—would give to her in return. She had given her heart to another, and she would rather drown in the depths of Riverrun’s waters than take it back from Jon’s hold.

Sansa will follow in the footsteps of her lady mother, and she will not accept Petyr Baelish’s hand.

“Perhaps another day will change your mind,” Baelish says, and lifts his hand towards the rising sun. A grin cuts across his face as the girl steps back into the tide to reprise her role as a swan. “Until tonight, then, my princess.”

There is a swish of his cloak and the echo of a chuckle on the air. It is triumphant, self-satisfied, and—if Sansa has her way—wholly miscalculated. Alone and unfettered, she flutters her wings, great and white and free of Baelish’s greedy stare, and follows the moonlight as it dances upon the swish-and-sway of Riverrun’s bay.

The swan glides across the water and thinks of home.

The wheels in Sansa’s head begin to turn, and she plots a way to return.


	6. this is my idea of love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: first of all, look, i realize that winterfell-to-riverrun would take more than a day, but i told you i was taking considerable liberties with the swan princess plot, so just assume i’m gonna do the same thing with westeros’ geography 
> 
> second of all, i don't have another point, so... enjoy

Jon has been on the swan’s tail since dawn. He’s gone half-mad, he’s sure of it, and yet that doesn’t stop him from following the great white beast to who-knows-where.

“Does it matter?” he asks Robb and Arya, who point this out while they watch him saddle his horse. “We’ve had no word of Sansa in nearly a month. We’ve looked everywhere. So does it really matter whether I waste my time on another wild goose chase?”

“Or a wild _swan_ chase, as it were,” Robb says, prompting Arya to elbow him in the ribs. “Ouch—right. Sorry. Honestly, Jon, a bird pecks at your window and suddenly you think you’ve found a way to Sansa? I want her home as much as you do, believe me,” he adds, his voice catching in his throat, “but this? It’s mad.”

Robb doesn’t need to tell him. No one does. Jon knows it’s mad, to leap from his bed and abandon the safety of Winterfell to follow a swan that might be a dead end at best and a trap at worst. Would Petyr Baelish do such a thing? he wonders, but of course he would. He’d whisked Sansa away on a jealous whim, to punish her mother for a childhood slight, so who’s to say that he wouldn’t set Jon up to fall?

But it doesn’t matter. None of it—the foolishness of this endeavor, the future of his life—matters without Sansa. And when he’d woken to the sound of a bird at his window, she is all he could think of. She is all he could see. Doesn’t that mean something? Does it matter if it doesn’t? Because either way, no matter what, Sansa is still missing, and he’ll do anything to get her back. If Jon has to drive himself mad to find her, then that’s what he’ll do.

“Wake the castle if you must. Gather the army, and follow my trail if I don’t return,” he instructs as he mounts his steed. “But I’m not waiting.”

Robb looks as though he would protest more, but Arya interjects with a curt nod, her eyes on Jon when she says, “Bring my sister home, or I’ll lay your arse out in the yard every day for the rest of your sorry life.”

Jon does not doubt it.

He has no room for doubt—not in Arya, nor in himself and the chase he’s embarked upon now. He keeps his eye on the swan, soaring in the sky above, and urges his horse to follow faster. Sunlight streams through the treetops to warm Jon’s face. It is not long before he’s drenched in sweat and panting from thirst, but he does not think of it.

He thinks of Sansa, and nothing else can touch him.

Jon rides through the day, never faltering as the sun shifts in the sky. The wind chills, shadows elongate, and the trees thin until—far in the distance—there is a castle. Vast blue water lies between where it stands and the shore upon which Jon dismounts, a sea so far and wide that it would take a month’s journey at least. The castle is nothing but a silhouette painted on the horizon, but there is no mistake.

The swan has brought him to Riverrun, to Catelyn Stark’s former home.

Jon’s heart hammers in his chest as he looks around for the swan, and he catches its movements as it hits the water and glides across. It turns one beady black eye towards him, an eye that glints as the sun descends and the moon begins its rise.

_Why have you brought me here?_

There is nothing here but a rocky shore and purple flowers peeking from crevices in the cliffs. In the distance, clouds gather and a flash of lightning illuminates the darkening sky. There is nothing here but lapping waves and whistling wind. Nothing but Jon Targaryen and a swan that looks towards the moon.

Jon looks about again, searching for something, anything, that might tell him where Sansa is—here or elsewhere or nowhere at all—and then he hears the water rising behind him.

His hand flies to the sword at his hip and he turns on his heel to face—what? An enemy, a threat? Jon doesn’t know, but can only watch the water glow gold and rise, higher and higher, and the swan’s nowhere to be seen as the shore shines as surely as though the sun had risen once more...

The water descends, and Jon thinks he must be dreaming.

_“Sansa.”_

She is here, water kissing her ankles and staining the hem of her dress dark gray. The wind whips at her skirts, her hair, and the breeze smells of salt and Sansa when it hits Jon’s face.

He drops his sword and runs to her, splashing and soaking them through when he catches her around the waist, making them stumble, but her arms lock around his neck to keep them standing. Jon’s mouth leaves trails of longing on her temple, her forehead, her cheeks and mouth and jaw, and all the while he’s saying her name.

“Sansa—Sansa, I thought I’d lost you,” he breathes, harried and labored. His fingers bite into her waist, holding her tight just so she won’t vanish on the air again. “Please tell me this isn’t a dream.”

“I’m here, I’m real,” Sansa soothes him. Her hands card through his hair, and she brings his wandering lips to hers in one searing, melting kiss that leaves his head reeling when it’s over much too soon. “But Jon—Jon, you can’t stay, you have to go—”

Thunder rumbles, and lightning rolls in the clouds above them.

“Go?” he echoes. _Never, not a chance._ “Sansa, I’ve only just found you again, I won’t leave you. Why would you bring me here if you were only going to send me away?”

“So you’d know where I was, what he’s done to me. I knew you’d follow me here, I knew you’d take every chance,” she explains, her heart breaking at the look in his eyes. The look that says he’ll stay. “But you need to go back now. _Tonight_ , Jon. Gather our men and lead them here. They can bring Baelish to an end, and when he dies so does the curse.”

But how can he leave her? Jon thinks, his heart meeting hers beat-for-beat. How can he leave, when he’s only just gotten her back?

“I’m not leaving,” he insists again. The sky opens above the water and rain pours into the sea. “I _can’t_. I don’t need an army, I’ll kill Baelish myself—”

“Will you now?” a slimy, slithering voice cuts in. “And how will you do that, when you’ve dropped your sword?”

As one, Jon and Sansa turn to meet Petyr Baelish’s smirk. He’s holding the blade that Jon had left behind, but tosses it aside when he has their attention. It lands with a _splash_ somewhere in the shallows, but the sound is drowned out by another duet of thunder and lightning.

“Sansa…” Jon sidesteps to block her from Baelish’s view, his hand on her hip to guide her behind him. To keep her safe.

Baelish only laughs. “That didn’t work the last time, my young prince. What makes you think you can save her now?”

Jon says nothing. The man is trying to goad him into a fight, but Jon doesn’t need to be goaded. He doesn’t need the other man’s mockery to taste blood in his own mouth. He doesn’t need to see his smirk to see red. And he doesn’t need his sword to tear Petyr Baelish from limb to limb, magic or no, magic be damned.

“Nothing to say, Your Grace?” Baelish continues. He takes a step forward, then another, and Jon’s hold on Sansa tightens. “Your silence won’t save you, either, nor her. You’re no hero, Jon Targaryen; I wouldn’t think less of you if I ended your life while you begged for mercy.”

Still Jon does not take the bait. As Baelish approaches—slowly, calculating, grinning all the while—his figure begins to distort. His features sharpen, his limbs lengthen. His cloak tears as wings sprout from his shoulder blades and his teeth sharpen into points. Claws curl out from his knuckles and his eyes glow scarlet. His skin gives way to scales, and his slithering taunts are little more than hisses.

“Your life means nothing to me,” the half-man, half-monster says, its voice a whisper and a rumble all at once. “But I’ll let you fight for it.”

Again, Jon does not speak. There is nothing to say, nothing but this beast before him and Sansa behind. There is nothing but great leathery wings and Sansa’s breath on his neck. There is nothing but the storm raging around them and Sansa’s voice, whispering his name.

“Jon—”

There is nothing but her breath, sharp and sweet. Nothing but Jon’s own private vow that the next time he tells her, he will look upon her face.

“Sansa,” he says, his eyes on the edges of the monster’s teeth, “I love you.”

There is nothing but a great animal before him, and the dagger in Jon’s boot.

Before lightning can strike again, Jon bends at the waist to retrieve the unseen weapon, and lunges at Petyr Baelish just as he gnashes his fangs. Jon tackles him into the wet sand, as far from Sansa as he can get him. He holds the dagger aloft, striking into Baelish at every angle and opportunity. But the blade is dismal compared to Baelish’s teeth, his claws, those great black wings that encircle Jon, beating, suffocating him while talons tear at his skin.

There is mud and rain and blood, and Jon thinks of how it will sound when Sansa says she loves him, too.

Beast and prince rip each other apart, until Jon scrambles to his feet to gain better leverage. He blinks blood—his or Baelish’s, he does not know—from his eyes, but still all he sees is red: Angry red scars, glowing red eyes, soft red hair he’d buried his face in, soft red hair that had smelled as sweet as coming home—

A screech tears from the monster’s throat and Jon tries to cut it, but his dagger is no match for its scales and muscles. He had been wrong to think that he could dispose of Baelish with nothing but righteous anger and bare hands. Magic be damned, but Jon cannot defeat it on his own. _My sword, I need my sword…_

Baelish had thrown it aside, carelessly into the water. For all Jon knows, it could be well on its way to Riverrun, tossed asunder by this tumultuous seastorm.

_You’re no hero, Jon Targaryen._

The words ring in his ears, promising destruction, defeat, death. Jon will not succumb, but lightning flashes before his eyes and thunder booms in his mind, claws slice into his chest, bloodying his shirt and leaving it in tatters, his hair matted with sweat and dirt, heart pounding pounding pounding like the beat of a war drum, a war that he cannot so much as hope to win—

_“Jon!”_

Sansa’s voice rings so clear and true, she cuts through the looming defeat and through the storm that rocks the shore. She takes over his failing mind and faltering steps, and Jon is compelled to turn away from the monster and towards her. When he does, he sees the sword—the one he needs, the one he’d prayed for, the one that Baelish had tossed away—spinning towards him through the air. Beyond stands Sansa, her arm still lifted in mid-throw and a gleam of victory in her eyes.

Eyes blue enough to drown in, Jon thinks, and swears he’ll lose himself in her depths for the rest of his life.

He catches the sword by its grip, and turns the blade on Baelish just as thunder claps a staccato rhythm overhead. Lightning flashes and sets his sword glowing. The beast opens its mouth to speak once more—Jon sees fangs stained with blood, sees the glint of fear in its scarlet eyes, sees its wings fall in sure destruction, ruin, and he thinks that Petyr Baelish has said quite enough.

He thrusts the blade into the monster’s heart.

There is one final, bloodcurdling wail, and the creature dissolves into thick black smoke that swirls high and higher still, the tornado roaring louder than the storm that has now begun to break. And then, just as suddenly, they dissolve. The clouds that had once been Petyr Baelish are whipped about by the wind, and there is nothing left but ashes in their wake.

The rain stops. Lightning stutters once, then twice, then dies, and the thunder retreats with a soft rumble. The sky lightens to a dusky indigo and the stars burst and blaze through the last vestiges of storm clouds. The wind softens, and the once-tempestuous water settles into a congenial ebb-and-flow upon the shore.

Again, Jon drops his sword, and it lands with a _thunk_ in the mud at his feet.

“Jon! Oh, god—”

A sob breaks, and Sansa is running towards him, her bare feet slipping on rocks and sticking in the damp sand. Jon turns, his arms opening to her as he meets her halfway, and she launches into his hold so fiercely that they nearly fall to the ground.

“You saved my life,” she breathes, and kisses his neck.

The discarded blade winks in the moonlight and Jon replies, heart steady now, “You saved mine first.”

He pulls back, just enough to look at her as he’d told himself he would. She is all wet hair and flushed face, relieved and wonderful smile, and blue, blue, forever-blue eyes. There is nothing left to do, to say, and whether it’s bickering with her or battling a beast, Jon won’t waste another moment.

“Sansa.” He cradles her face, damp with rain and tears, in his bloodied hands, and looks upon her when he says, “I love you.”

“Jon.” Her voice breaks again on his name, and her fingers encircle his wrists and hold him fast. “I love you, too.”

In the distance, a horn sounds, accompanied by the charging of horses as Winterfell’s bannermen ride to the shore. But neither Jon nor Sansa hear, so when their men clear the trees, they find their future king and queen drenched with the sea, splattered with blood, and locked at the lips.

Arya turns in her saddle to give Robb a smug grin. “Told you he liked her.”


	7. we've been told we'd someday wed

Lyanna Stark likes to say “I told you so,” but never more so than on the day of her son’s wedding.

She says it to her husband, even though he’d thought the whole thing was his idea in the first place. She says it to her brother, who replies, “I _know_ , Lyanna. I agreed, didn’t I?” She says it to her sister-in-law, who must concede, but she does so with a smile. She says it to her nieces and nephews and Winterfell’s wards:

“Ugh, don’t remind me,” Robb laughs at his aunt.

“Sansa walks in and Jon’s a green boy all over again,” Theon Greyjoy chuckles.

“I don’t know what you’re telling _me_ ‘I told you so’ for,” Arya counters when Lyanna gets to her. “I’m the one who made your idiot son admit to it.”

Lyanna hadn’t known that. She gives Arya a bottle of rum in thanks.

In the women’s chambers, Lyanna braids blue roses into her new daughter’s hair and singsongs, “I told you so.”

“I know you did.” Sansa rewards her with a smile, and Lyanna’s sure she’s never seen anything quite so true, so content, so beautiful.

She would daresay that her son hasn’t, either. He meets Sansa in the godswood with a shaking hand, wide eyes, and a slack jaw, to boot. His gaze devours her with such intimate intensity, as though they are alone, and not standing on sacred ground surrounded by friends, family, and subjects alike.

“I didn’t look at you so brazenly when we were wed, did I?” Rhaegar Targaryen asks out of the corner of his mouth.

“Indeed you did.” Lyanna kisses his cheek. “I wouldn’t have married you otherwise.”

“Don’t fret,” Catelyn reassures her scandalized brother-in-law. “Ned looked at me that way, too. I imagine that’s how a man should look upon his lady wife. I certainly wouldn’t have it any other way for Sansa.”

Their laughter reaches Jon and Sansa’s ears, but their eyes are all for each other. Sansa, resplendent in the whites-and-grays of Winterfell until Jon hangs Targaryen black-and-red over her shoulders. As he does, he brushes back her braided hair to plant a kiss at the juncture of her neck and shoulder.

“You’re radiant,” he murmurs into her skin. “And I am so wildly in love with you.”

When the ceremony concludes, Jon takes her by the waist and Sansa curls her fingers into his hair, and they seal their union with such reckless abandon that, across the watching crowd, more than several wolf-whistles arise. Their own laughter tangles in the kiss, but they do not break apart to join the merriment just yet.

“I’ll love you forever. Longer, even,” Sansa whispers into the tender embrace of his mouth. “You’re all that I’ve ever dreamed.”

 _“We’re not in love,”_ both Sansa and Jon had once insisted, and at the time neither would have admitted they were wrong. But on the morn of their wedding, when Jon vows to serve and Sansa to protect, they each privately admit that perhaps everyone else had been right all along. Not that either would deign to tell the rest of them the truth—after all, this husband and wife had done _some_ of the work, at least, on their own.

It may have been their parents’ idea of a match and their friends’ idea of some fun, but neither Jon nor Sansa had needed anyone to tell them to fall in love.

~The End.


End file.
